


Đive

by smellyleaf



Series: Đive [1]
Category: Olympics RPF, Real Person Fiction, Swimming RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Closeted Character, Drug Addiction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Secret Relationship, Teen Angst, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smellyleaf/pseuds/smellyleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After one of the Senior members of the Mirovale High swimteam falls down the stairs and breaks his leg, Michael Phelps is given the coveted position alongside his longtime unrequited crush, Ryan Lochte. The story follows his experiences as he comes to terms with what it means to be in the popularity spotlight and the sacrifices one must make to stay there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

╔═.♥. ════════════════════════════╗

PROLOGUE: IN WHICH EVERYTHING IS THE SAME, OR SO IT SEEMS

╚══════.♥. ═══════════════════════╝

The school is exactly how Michael remembers it from the year before: huge, with a rolling lawn in front and a fountain surrounded by a swamp of kids that hate him. The building itself screams institution, white cinder block walls, four stories to a flat roof. Behind the main school is the recreational commune, a circle of five metal buildings housing the separate gymnasiums and the pool. Student parking is to the left, a massive sheet of pavement. Mirovale Charter School is a massive place, containing a full high school, middle school, and elementary, with a limited preschool department.

Michael Phelps and his sisters have been attending Mirovale since they turned 5. Back then, their mother Debbie Phelps was working as a 10th Grade Chemistry teacher, so it was only logical for her to send all three of her young children to her own school. Michael can still vividly remember playing on the floor of her room while she tutored kids after school, sometimes as late as 6:00. He'd hated it. Twelve years later and he has to admit that he'd rather she went back to teaching Chemistry.

"Don't forget to stop by mom's office and get your planner," says Michael's older sister, Whitney Phelps. She is bent forward, one elbow resting on the curved bar of the steering wheel, separating her eyelashes one by one with her longest fake fingernail. She's skinny, in a bright red crop top and a pair of highwaisted skinny jeans, with some faux gold bangles rattling down her wrist.

Michael is in last year's Jordans and a pair of khaki cargo shorts. His t shirt is from last year's Sophmore car wash with a big Mirovale shark on the back. His backpack is last year's too, plain black.

A 2014 Chevrolet Impala pulls into the empty space to their left and Whitney shoos Michael with her hands, "Gabby's here. Get out."

Gabby Douglas, Senior MCS cheerleading captain, hops out of the Chevy. Her box braids are down to her ass, and she flips them back over one shoulder, looking down at Michael like he's a bug. Her shorts are way too short for the first day of school, but that's none of his business anyway. Looking down at the ground, Michael opens the passenger door and slips out past her in the space between their two vehicles. Gabby doesn't thank him, just slides into his empty seat and shuts the door behind her with a click, settling in for a gossip session with Whitney.

Michael cuts across the lawn, dragging his feet quite a bit through the grass. Unlike Whitney, he doesn't really fit into any of the groups at school. Even though he's not exactly openly homosexual, the other students have always... treated him differently. As if they could sense something was special about him. If nothing else, that can make you feel like kind of a loner.

As he nears the fountain and main steps, the crackle of the overhead intercom speakers draws everyone's attention. It's the MCS Broadcasting Crew of course, back for another year of nauseatingly boring messages.

"Welcome back, sharks!" The intercom crackles, " Student body president here, Caroline Burkle, hoping you had a fab summer! To all our Freshman and transfer students, a help seminar is being held in the basketball gym. If you'd like to attend, just make your way to the Athletics Complex, where you-"

A group of girls near Michael burst out laughing, baring their teeth in an imitation of Caroline's smile. She isn't particularly well-liked, what with being the student body president. He's half-listening to the announcements, most of them exactly the same as last year's, when Caroline's voice over the intercom is drowned out by the pumping of a bass and the distinct sound of Rae Sremmurd. Michael's head turns with about sixty others, just in time to see a black Escalade park in a senior spot.

The passenger door opens first and Cullen Jones hops out, opening the backseat door on his way past it so that Kyle Deery can get out. Both of them are dressed in all new school clothes, shiny sneakers so fresh that the toes don't even crease. Several eyes watch Kyle and Cullen walk across the grass, two of the most popular boys in the entire school, but Michael waits.

The car cuts off a second later and the driver side door opens. Ryan Steven Lochte steps out and Michael's whole chest constricts.

For years, Michael has had a secret obsession with Ryan Lochte. Out of all the boys in the school, Michael thinks Ryan is surely the handsomest. He's tan and freckled, with blue eyes and six pack abs, with the added benefits of being rich and popular too.... who wouldn't want Ryan Lochte? He's flawless. He's everything Michael has ever fantasized about. 

He might as well not even know Michael exists.

"Deery!" Ryan calls and tosses his head, curly hair bouncing out of his eyes. He scratches his chest through the thin cotton of his white t shirt. Michael can practically hear the school's female population melting, and he tries not to let it show that he's sort of melting with them. When Ryan ducks his head to whisper in Kyle's ear, curls bobbing down over his beautiful face, Michael turns away and keeps walking.

He's barely even made it to the locker room before she pops up.

"Michael, honey, here's your planner. I taped a copy of your schedule in front." Debbie Phelps is all dressed up for the first day of school and, predominantly, the first PTO meeting of the year which will take place after. Her sweater actually has red apples printed all over it.

Michael grinds his teeth together, scanning the numbers on the lockers until he spots his locker... right by his mother's office door. His expression darkens considerably.

"Seriously?" He glares daggers at his mother. A group of students glide past behind them and laugh. Michael flushes red automatically, even though it probably wasn't directed at him.

Debbie hesitates, "...I just want to keep an eye on you this year. That's all."

"Mom, please," Michael gives her an exasperated look, "Things are bad enough already without being two feet from your door. This is only gonna make it worse."

Debbie Phelps sighs, fighting off her principal voice and replacing it with her mom voice, "....Okay, I'll straighten it out." She reaches out a hand to ruffle his hair, but Michael steps away too quick.

"I need to find my first class."

And then he's just another backpack.

His first class after home room is A Period Spanish. Michael thinks it's some world record that he's been at school less than an hour and he already wants to kill himself. He sits down in the third desk; not the first (too nerdy) and not the fourth (too far back for him to ever manage to concentrate). He figures it can't get any worse than Spanish in the morning, so at least there's that.

Too bad it gets worse.

"So there I am, naked from the waist down-" Ryan Lochte and his friends come in like a wave, filling everyone in the room with a sense of awe and purpose. Ryan is right in the middle of some story about his birthday party, which took place literally two days ago, August 3rd, the Saturday before school. It goes without saying that Michael wasn't invited.

Kyle Deery, Ryan's best friend, next-door-neighbor and confidante, is the one being spoken to. He's right at Ryan's side, as usual. Just about the same height as Ryan, he's paler and a bit lankier, with a short crop of straight brown hair and a some peach fuzz on his upper lip.

Ryan looks damn good in a slouchy pair of red jeans and a plain white tee with a red hat to match. One of Michael's favorite things about him are his broad shoulders, and they're looking particularly good under the thin stretched cotton of his Hanes. He knows he's staring, and usually he can stop himself from doing that, but not today. Not when Ryan is so luminous, like he soaked up all the summer sun an hour before school. Not when he's flashing his teeth in a perfect smile and sitting down in the fourth desk of the aisle to Michael's left.

"Shit was fuckin' crazy, I gotta agree." Kyle is saying, laughing at Ryan's story. His eyes shift right and make direct contact with Michael's, catching him in the act of staring, "What're you looking at, Dumbo?"

Dumbo. It's unoriginal, but it still stings. Michael wishes he could tape his ears down without anyone noticing, or just get them surgically removed. It's even worse when Ryan glances his way, those bright blue eyes giving him a quick once over before... dismissing him. The boys continue their conversation without even expecting an answer.

Michael looks hard in the opposite direction. But turning his face away can't stop how ashamed he feels inside, how badly he wishes he could crawl out of his own body.

Basically, school sucks. It's been steadily sucking for awhile now, since Michael came out of the closet really. Michael figured out he was gay pretty early, because it really doesn't take that many crushes to figure something like that out. In a house full of women, he didn't feel much pressure to hide his real self. No, that didn't come til middle school.

But now it's junior year and they're still calling him Dumbo, and he's still 100% invisible to Ryan Lochte. In all honesty though, Michael has resigned himself to his own destiny. He's accepted the tragedy that is his high school career.

And then Erik Vendt fell down the stairwell and broke two bones in his leg in half, and the swim team went into cardiac arrest.


	2. Chapter 1

╔═.♥. ═══════════════════════════╗

CH. 1: IN WHICH MICHAEL INVITES A STRANGER TO PRACTICE

╚══════.♥. ══════════════════════╝ 

"It's so sad about Erik."

Debbie is making dinner, cutting up vegetables to make a salad for herself and Whitney, with hotdogs on the stove for Michael, a strict carnivore.

"Yeah," Whitney hops up to sit on the kitchen counter, "Gabby was crying all practice, it was sooo depressing. They're saying we don't have enough to compete now or something gay like that-"

"Don't use 'gay' as a negative, sweetheart."

"-and that means we can't swim! What am I supposed to do if Connor can't swim this year? Mom, this is my LAST YEAR on the squad!"

Michael rolls his eyes, not that anyone can see, as he keeps his head bowed down to his homework. He's managed to be on the honor roll three years in a row now, but it's not something that comes naturally for him. The kitchen is silent for a long, suspicious minute. When he glances up both his mom and sister are staring at him.

"...What?"

Debbie seems reluctant until Whitney glares at her, "...Michael, dear, have you ever... thought about trying out for the team? Now that you're a Junior?"

MCS's Varsity Swimteam is the pride of the school. Comprised of 10 boys (4 seniors, 4 juniors, and the 2 sophomore JV team captains) it's the smallest, and thus most exclusive, sports team on campus. All the most popular people in school are on it, and that includes Ryan Lochte of course. 

Ever since his dad left when he was seven, Michael has been going to see a therapist once a month in the city. When he was 12, Dr. Barrone suggested that sports might be a good outlet for Michael's frustrations. At that point, the bullying had already been going on for over a year, so Debbie had chosen to sign Michael up for the city team. It had ended up being the best thing for him, actually. Michael is talented, majorly talented. The city team is really one of the only positive things he's got going for him.

If he was being completely honest though, he would have to admit that being on the Mirovale swimteam has been a fantasy of his since middle school. At MCS they're practically heroes, what with all the pep rallies and hurrah surrounding every meet. It's the type of popularity that Michael can only dream of.

Debbie and Whitney are both just looking at him, waiting for his answer.

"...But mom, I'd have to quit the city team-"

Whitney rolls her eyes, "It's not like you made a ton of friends on it."

Debbie cuts in with a warning tone, "Whitney."

"It's stupid, mom. He won't even try to be cool and then he complains all day about how everyone bullies him."

"I don't complain all day!" Michael feels like a ball of cotton is in his throat.

"Pussy!"

Michael shoves his chair back, looking at Debbie indignantly, _"Mom!"_

"Whitney, don't say that word-"

"Well he is!" Whitney screams, jumping off the counter, "He's acting like a bitch!"

"WHITNEY!" Debbie slams the salad tongs down, "Go to your room!"

"It's fine, she doesn't have to." Michael pushes his chair back and stands, "I'm not hungry. And I'm not quitting the city team, it's all I have."

Up the stairs to his room he goes, dragging his feet the whole way. He slams the door on purpose, to make her leave him alone, and lays down on his bed. His room is dark except for the screen of his laptop, and the darkness makes him comfortable enough to be a little upset.

Whitney is right. He doesn't have a single friend.

Geometry the next day is torturous. For one, Michael can barely concentrate, since Math is complicated and formulas are hard for him. His troubles are only multiplied, though, by the addition of Ryan and a piece-of-shit teaching theory called alphabetical order.

"Lochte."

"Here," Ryan sighs after he says it in just the right way. The other cool kids approve of him greatly. He's wearing a light blue t-shirt. The collar has a little bit of light pink velvet on the back edge with a logo on it, and Michael keeps staring at it.

"Phelps." The teacher calls.

Michael wasn't ready. He swallows and stutters out, "H-here." A couple people in class chuckle.

"Phillips." The teacher continues.

Ryan is sitting right in front of Michael, about a foot and a half away at the farthest point, with the closest being the distance between Michael's hand, resting on his desk, and Ryan's back: three inches. An agonizing three inches. It's torture and heaven at the same time, because Ryan is distracting, yes. But his hair also smells like honey and when he slouches in his desk, Michael can smell it clearly.

Ryan sighs again and pulls out his phone, texting under the desktop. Everyone within a two desk seating area admires him, including Michael, though his version is a little different. Mostly, he admires the fuzz on the lobe of Ryan's ears, his smooth jaw, and his curly hair. Ryan has one tanned elbow on the desk and on that wrist is a shiny silver Michael Kors watch. 

Michael blushes and puts his head down on his desk before anyone notices him staring.

The teacher is new to their grade, and he looks bored already, even though it's only the second day. One glance around the room tells him exactly what he needs to know. Everyone who's slouching is going to fail, the people who are organizing their notebooks or getting out paper will pass, and the people who are sleeping might do okay if they wake up.

"I'm going to put you into review groups. You each get a worksheet, fill it out with your partner. Due tomorrow." He walks down the aisles, designating people for groups and passing out papers.

When he gets to Ryan, he points, "You..." His finger travels to Michael, "...and you." Michael is absolutely horrified and elated at the same time.

Ryan sighs again, rather dramatically, and stands up to turn his desk around to face Michael's. He has a silver chain around his neck that hangs down just past his pecs. When he sits back down he kicks his legs out and the toe of his left sneaker touches Michael's right foot.

Ryan's blue eyes level on him, "You good at math or nah?"

Michael is scared to move his foot because then Ryan won't be touching him. He hesitates, then shakes his head minutely.

Ryan barely acknowledges the response at all, just starts writing, filling in answers way faster than Michael can. He's done in maybe five minutes, no erasing.

Michael blinks at him in shock, but Ryan just spins the paper around, "Copy." 

So he does, copying each of Ryan's answers down and his work. When he's done, he offers a big smile, "Thanks."

"Dude.... we're partners," Ryan mumbles back quietly, texting under the desk, "We have to have the same answers if we wanna get credit." He doesn't look up. Michael admires his handwriting, which is a neat, boyish print. He wonders absently if Ryan's cursive really sucks, like his own.

Ryan sighs yet again, tossing his head to get his curls out of his eyes, and shoves his phone in his pocket quite roughly. This sigh is different and Michael's curiosity is piqued.

"What's the matter?" It comes out of his mouth before he can think to shut himself up.

Ryan picks at a loose thread on his jeans, "You heard about Erik, yeah? He's not coming back. He can't even use crutches, it's a shitty break." He sounds bored talking to Michael, but Phelps can't make himself care. Ryan Lochte is talking to him! Michael's day brightens considerably.

"That sucks."

"Yeah, cause now we don't have a fucking team." He yanks at the thread to emphasize.

"Well, if you miss this first heat, you may be able to make up the points in the next one with good times." Ryan isn't looking, so Michael stares at him openly. The angle of Ryan's nose is perfect, a straight line down like a Greek god's. His lips are red and his tan is flawless, not too dark, just a nice smooth tint.

"We can't make up any times if we don't get a swimmer," He grumbles, "Which blows."

Michael's heart hurts a little looking at Ryan's sad face, which makes him feel like a bit of a loser. Ryan is only talking to him because there's no one else to talk to, and Michael is just sitting there loving him while Ryan won't even make eye contact. But on the other hand, he thinks, maybe Ryan is just so upset by the circumstances that he doesn't want to make eye contact with anybody. Or something. Yeah, that could be a good excuse.

Ryan's phone vibrates audibly, but he ignores it, resting his head on the palm of his hand and sighing again.

Michael loves him. Ryan is sad and Michael loves him. It's a little too much.

He takes a deep breath, "I'm a swimmer. I'll try out." There's a beat of silence before Ryan laughs. It hurts, but Michael pushes on. "I can. I take lessons from Glenn Cassidy. Do you know where Metro is, downtown? My pool's right across from it. I swear."

Ryan stops laughing, but his grin doesn't fade, "Are you for real, Michael?"

It's almost a kind of high to hear Ryan saying his name in that serious tone. Michael nods eagerly, "Come to my practice." He grabs Ryan's hand, which is warm, and picks up his pen, "It's from 4:00 to 7." He writes the name of the pool and the time on Ryan's hand, trying to keep himself from running the pad of his thumb along Ryan's wrist.

When Michael's done, Ryan pulls his hand back and looks at the time without comment.

"Just come. If I suck, you can tell me and I'll shut up about it. But I don't suck. And you just need someone until Erik comes back, so you can compete, right?" He sounds as eager as he feels, but he can't help it.

Ryan laughs, "Okay, dude, I'll come to your freaking practice. Just chill out." No more Michaels, he's 'dude' again. Then Ryan takes their papers to the collection tray and when he comes back he turns his desk back the right way.

The bell rings shortly after and Ryan stands up, ending their conversation as he heads towards the door. Michael watches him, watches his friends engulfing him. Watches Ryan talk to Kyle without ever lifting the hand with the writing on it. 

Michael hopes Ryan won't forget to show up. Michael also has hope that Ryan won't make fun of him, hope that Ryan sort of likes him. Not the way Michael likes Ryan, but maybe the way Ryan likes Kyle. Just a little.

But hope is the last thing on his mind as the bell for break rings and he goes to hide in a bathroom stall, closing his eyes as he leans back against the wall, thinking about the feel of Ryan's hand.


	3. Chapter 2

 

╔═.♥. ═══════════════════════════╗

CH 2: IN WHICH MICHAEL JOINS THE MHS SWIMTEAM

╚══════.♥. ══════════════════════╝

 

It's well past time for Michael to eat his quick dinner and Debbie Phelps is still stuck pounding on his door. He's never locked her out before and she's getting irritated, "Michael, hurry up! You'll be late for practice!"

"Yeah, just a second."

In his room, Michael is busy staring at himself in his basketball shorts, shirtless, inspecting his chest. His abs are okay, nothing special, but he is scrawny. And a little pale. Not like Ryan, who had a workout schedule prescribed by the school and clocks into the work out room every day at five, meaning that he is pretty much the high school equivalent of Adonis.

Michael sighs, averting his eyes from his face in the mirror. That can't be helped, so far as he sees it. His hair is too short to be bothered with, either. Grabbing his t shirt off his bed, Michael pulls it on. He is a bundle of nerves and they aren't even at the pool yet. Unlocking his door, he opens it and comes face to face with his mom.

"Michael, are you okay?" Debbie asks, looking suspicious.

"Yeah." He pauses, "Mom... can I take the car and drive myself?"

Debbie blinks in surprise.

"I just, I already have my license and I never get to drive. Please?"

Debbie's brow furrows, "You hate to drive." When Michael's face falls, she stumbles into a new sentence, "But you can if you want, dear." He's old enough to drive himself. She has no reason to refuse.

"Thanks, mom." Michael smiles brightly and hugs her, taking the keys she extends to him and bouncing over to the front door. Dufflebag over one shoulder, he takes the steps two at a time, a big grin on his face.

Truth be told, though, Michael is nervous as hell on the inside. He was already late to practice, and every second of driving, he just got later. Then there was the prospect of Ryan not coming or, worse yet, Ryan coming and leaving because stupid Michael couldn't get there on time.

When Michael pulls up to the pool, Ryan's Escalade is already there, super shiny in the afternoon sun with its' chrome edging and its' huge rims. Michael takes a deep breath when he sees it, grabbing his bag out of the backseat and jogging up the steps and into the building.

The city coach makes eye contact with him as he skirts the edge of the pool and runs into the locker room. Michael knows he's in for a major reaming after practice... but maybe it won't be so bad if he's quitting. Shaking his head, Michael tries to push any hopeful thoughts to the back of his mind. He needs to focus if he wants to swim well.

Walking out onto the deck, he stays in the zone and doesn't allow himself to look for Ryan up in the bleachers. He has to wait for the current set to finish, and of course the coach chews him out, but then he's finally up on the block. The moment before they dive feels like the longest minuteof Michael's life. He can hear his own heart beating in his ears, and the water looks like smooth glass in front of him, shining with possibility. It's like a drug to him, that moment before the dive. Then coach blows the whistle and the stillness shatters.

Maybe he thinks he has something to prove or maybe he's just that fucking good. Michael cuts through the water, already an arm's length ahead of his teammates from the jump. His strokes are precise, the product of rigorous training. Even his breathing is controlled and even.

Though Michael doesn't see it, Ryan Lochte stands up in the bleachers to get a better view.

"1:54:58!" The coach calls when Michael's head is first out the water.

He takes great pains to control himself, to NOT look everywhere for Ryan. Climbing carefully out of the pool, he walks over to the bench where he left his bag and grabs his towel, scrubbing it over his face. When he lowers it, Ryan Lochte is standing on the deck in front of him. He's resplendent in a bright neon yellow and pink shirt that reads 'I DON'T NEED WEED TO BE DOPE' in huge letters.The very front is tucked in to show off his belt buckle. Michael is trying to be cool but he's crushing hard and his heart feels like it's going to drop through his stomach.

Ryan is smiling at him though and Michael is pretty sure it's okay for him to die now, since everything he's ever wanted has just come true.

"What the fuck." Ryan says, and it's definitely not a question.

Michael flushes red and looks away. He doesn't know what he should say.

"Well, your fly is ballin'. But I'm pretty sure you knew that," Ryan grins wide, "You gonna tell me how you could watch MHS come in second at nationals last year hiding a fly like that?"

There's a bit of an awkward pause. Obviously Michael is "hiding" because the swimteam would have never gave him a chance in hell before. They're both thinking it, avoiding each other's eyes, and then Ryan barrels through in his confident way.

"So, you gonna sign up?" He flashes Michael his most perfect smile.

It works. It works so well and so quickly that Michael wants to punch something, or maybe just kiss him.

"Yeah. Okay. Yeah." He realizes he's nodding a bunch and forces his neck to stop.

Ryan smiles again, "Awesome. We have practice every day before and after school. And you'll need a weight room schedule and some black jammers, but I think Bob can handle that. He's the coach." He shrugs one shoulder, tossing his head again, a signature move Michael could see a thousand, million times and never tire of, "I'm captain of the team, and C-Jones is co-captain."

Michael flushes slightly, "I know. Everyone knows that."

"Well, sign up tomorrow and I'll tell Bob about you. You'll need to order some sweats and all that shit, and get a locker and a school bag. He'll give you the forms tomorrow."

Michael chews his lip, "I can get the forms. My mom... has them in her office."

Ryan blinks, "Oh. Yeah. Cool." Michael has lost his attention, Ryan is already scrolling through his phone, "Well, later."

"Later," Michael mumbles, but Ryan is already walking away. His eyes go straight to Ryan's ass, which is looking especially good today in a great pair of jeans. He keeps staring into space even after Ryan is gone, daydreaming....

His fantasy world is interrupted by his coach grabbing his arm and yanking him towards the weight room, "Phelps, you were late. I need lifts for that-"

Michael resists for the first time, pulling away. "No. I quit." He paused, "I'm moving over to the school program."

The coach is stunned. He obviosuly wasn't expecting that at all, and something about his slackjawed expression infuriates Michael. Infuriates him and makes him want to cry, all at once.

"Bye." He pulls his shorts out of his duffle bag and yanks them on, leaving his towel on the floor. He's made it two steps when the city coach grabs his elbow.

"Michael," Coach pauses, frowing slightly in a sympathetic, rather pitying way, "If you uh, change your mind.... you're always welcome back. Okay?"

Michael feels like he got socked in the chest, even though he knows it wasn't supoosed to be an insult. Still, he snatches his arm away and nearly runs out of the building, forgetting his flip-flops on the pool deck. Once he's in his mom's car he's too chicken to run back in and get them, so he leaves. He's sure his mom has already gotten the phone call, but he doesn't care. He can bullshit some kind of reason to her later. She was the one who first mentioned it anyway.

Michael smiles. Yeah, she brought it up first.

By the time he gets home, Debbie is ready for him. He can see her inside, sitting at the kitchen table. For the first time, Michael doesn't care at all, he has a story ready. He wants to do this, he has to do it to be near Ryan, and she's not going to change his mind.

She's going to try, though.

"Michael, come here, please." She says the moment he opens the door. Dropping his bag by the hall closet, Michael steps into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge.

"Your coach called. He says you quit."

Michael uses the refrigerator door to hide behind, poking through the food aimlessly, "Yeah."

"I thought you said the city team was important to you, what made you change your mind?" When Michael doesn't answer Debbie chooses her words carefully, "Your coach said... he saw you talking to Ryan Lochte right before you decided to quit."

Michael is still in the fridge, "Yeah. You have to sign some forms he said."

"Michael, I don't like this. I don't think this is a good idea-"

That's what he's been waiting on. Michael closes the door and turns to face her, "YOU were the one who asked me to!"

Debbie frowns.

"It was YOUR and Whitney's idea! So now I'm doing it and you don't like it. Which is it?"

"...You know how I feel about Ryan Lochte, Michael. You know I don't like him."

"You don't even know him!" Michael rolls his eyes.

Debbie snaps, "Neither do you! He's a CRUSH, Michael! And he bullies you!"

"He doesn't bully me!" Michael frowns. This is a half-truth. It's Ryan's FRIENDS that bully him, Ryan just laughs at what they say.

Debbie sighs and drops her face into her palms, "Whatever, Michael," She mumbles from under her hair, "It's your choice. I'll get the forms to Coach Bowman tomorrow morning."

Michael smiles brightly, "So I can go to practice tomorrow?"

"Yes," Debbie sighs again. She's quite surprised when Michael runs up and gives her a huge hug, but even that doesn't make her smile.

She wants to say more, but Michael is just too happy for her to ruin it with parently advice, so she lets him retreat to his room. Maybe, in the end, that was the wrong choice.

The next morning is a touch-and-go situation.

Michael knows better than to push his luck. Just because his mother signed the forms and dropped them off at the office for Coach Bowman doesn't mean he and Ryan are friends, or that she entirely approves of the idea in general. Michael still sits by himself at lunch, and he still looks like a loser in Spanish, trying to conjugate estar in the future tense while Ryan chews on a mechanical pencil and talks over his shoulder to Kyle.

"You're coming tonight, right?" Ryan is asking him.

Kyle replies, "Yeah. Of course."

Michael glances between them curiously.

"Amanda said the girls are gonna come. They'll bring half a keg left over from Logan's birthday, but we gotta supply the rest." Ryan continues.

"Fuckin' chicks." Kyle rolls his eyes, "I'll pitch in, but I better get laid."

Ryan grins, glancing back at Kyle before leaning across the aisle to Michael, "Hey, is Whitney comin'?"

Michael is caught completely off-guard. All he can do is stare.

Ryan smiles at him patiently, "I asked you if Whitney was coming."

"T-To what?" Michael mentally shot himself for stuttering.

Kyle snickers, but Ryan ignores him, still smiling, "I know you were listening to our conversation, so just cut the shit and answer my question."

"I.."Michael took a deep breath, "No. She's going to see Erik at the hospital."

Ryan's smile widens, "Okay. You come in her place."

Michael and Kyle both look at him like he's crazy. "What?" Says Michael, assuming he misheard.

"What?!" Echoes Kyle.

"I'm having a party tonight at my house while my parents are out." He glances at Kyle venomously to silence him, "So why don't you come?"

"I can't." Michael looks away, carefully tracing his name on the top of his paper, "I've.. got a curfew." Kyle laughs and Michael turns bright red.

"You're on the team now. You gotta hang with us if you wanna be one of us." Ryan leans back in his seat and Michael can't help but let his eyes coast over that much muscled frame on display. Like goddamn.

"My mom'll never let me go."

Ryan smiles, "....So sneak out. What if I said I'll send somebody to pick you up?"

Michael studies his Spanish worksheet, which is covered in mistakes and due the next day. He glances at Ryan's, which is blank. His mind is racing a mile a minute and he;s confused, he doesn't know what to think.

"I can't. I have a ton of homework and... I just can't." He lies. Really, he just doesn't trust them. Ryan lets it drop and they don't speak again for the rest of the period.

At the end of class, Kyle walks close to Ryan's back, laughing, "Told you he'd never say yes."

Michael doesn't know if that proves it was a trick or not. It sits in his mind all day, driving him crazy, but by 3:00 he's no closer to figuring things out.

Varsity Swimming is held in Gym C, the newest of MHS's three gym facilities. The pool is hugeand sparkling, and Coach Bowman is waiting on the first block with a clipboard in his hand when Michael walks in.

"Phelps?"

"That's me." Michael smiles nervously.

"Welcome to the team," Bob says, and then he actually reaches out and shakes Michael's hand, "Congratulations."

"Morning workout starts at 5am," Coach says, "You supply your own running shoes. There's going to be a few changes to your schedule, I'll need you in my G Period gym class as well, we usually transition from that right into afterschool sets. Practice ends at 5pm so make sure you set up a ride. C'mon, I'll give you the tour."

Bob Bowman leads him down the deck and through the locker room to his locker, pointing people out as they go, "We only have four other Juniors on the team: Lochte, Deery, Tyler-Clary, and Grevers. The rest are Seniors and then we have Berens and Burckle, the Sophmore captains of the JV team. They only come to two varsity practices twice a week, the rest of the week they're my five to seven." He gestures to the one black guy in the room, busy in his locker, "That's Jones. He's co-captain, Lochte's the captain."

Michael just keeps his eyes on the ground and nods.

"Jones, Van der Burgh, Jaeger, and Vendt are our Senior team members. Their lockers are closest to the door. You're replacing Vendt so you'll be using his locker, but don't get a big head about it." He pauses, "Deery, put your fucking phone away!" Turning back to Michael, his expression is stern, "No texting, no selfies, no flirting, no headphones, no gum, no candy," He glared at Ryan, who just grinned back, "And definitely no girlfriends in here until after practice, and even then I better not catch them in this locker room. Got it?"

Michael swallows, "Got it."

Bob hands him a stack of forms, "Okay, you need to fill these out. You need sweats, a jacket, a dark and a light t shirt, a hat, a Speedo, a swimcap, regulation goggles, an athletic bag, and a bumper sticker."

Michael blinks, "I don't have a car."

"Just fill out the forms, okay? Fuck. Don't make this difficult, Phelps."

Ryan grins at him as he walks past with the rest of the team, filing out on deck, "Yeah, don't make this difficult, Phelps."

Michael blushes and turns his face into his open locker until they've passed.

It takes forever to fill out everything. At the end of practice, Michael hands his stack of papers back, "How am I supposed to pay for this? Cash?"

Bob gives him a confused look, "The school pays for it. This is a board funded sport."

"Oh."

"Look, all you do is show up and win, kid. I've heard you're pretty good, I checked out your scores from Nationals last year. And with my help, you'll get better. The school takes care of the rest." Coach Bowman gives him a big, bright smile.

All you do is show up and win. Michael is pretty sure he can handle that.


	4. Chapter 3

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CH. 3: IN WHICH MICHAEL PHELPS IS TIRED

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Michael doesn't go to the party, even though a part of him wants to. He has to remind himself that Ryan is not his friend, that Ryan's friends aren't even his friends. That he isn't the type of kid that goes to parties where everyone gets high and wasted.  
He goes to early workout and has to run extra laps with the rest of the team because Ryan and Kyle are no-shows. Coach Bowman is pissed, grumbling about how it's a 'shitty example for a fucking captain.' It's a grueling first day workout for Michael, but the rest of the team is even angrier than he is. Everyone is griping under their breath about Ryan.

Michael wonders what happened at the party he missed, and he finds that he's not really angry at Ryan so much. No, he's more jealous than anything. So when Ryan walks into math ten minutes late, with half-lidded eyes and a baseball cap pulled low over his unruly curls, Michael really wishes he'd gone to the party.

For once, Ryan is quiet. He sits down at his desk in front of Michael and lays his head down. The back of his t shirt goes up just barely and Michael can see the band of his boxers and his jeans, right under a half-inch piece of tan skin. Seeing parts of Ryan like that are better than seeing him in a Speedo. That half-inch strip of flesh lets Michael fantasize about intimacy, unlike a Speedo, which is seen by every single person in the school every meet.

Michael is staring hard, which is why it comes as a surprise when Ryan turns and looks at him. He snaps his eyes up to Ryan's face, flushing red.

"You're moving this time. I've got a killer headache."

It takes Michael a moment to realize what Ryan is talking about, but he gets it once he sees everyone else partnering off. Standing, he pulls his desk to Ryan's and takes the sheets the teacher hands them.

"Do mine." Ryan lays his head down and closes his eyes.

Michael looks at the handouts. They're still in review, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't know the formulas for area and perimeter of a trapezoid, and his stomach clenches as his face turns red.

"I..." He sets them down on the desk, glancing at Ryan, then looking away, "I can't. I mean, I can do mine but you don't want me to do yours. It won't be right."

Ryan turns his head slightly, "What?"

"I can't do it." Michael is slowly turning red, but he forces himself to be clear, "I can't do this math."

There's a beat of silence between them, then Ryan looks up, propping his chin on his folded arms, "Well, first you have to find the area." 

Michael flushes an even darker shade of red. Ryan looks gorgeous, his blue eyes framed by a line of dark brown lashes. Michael can see every single freckle on his nose.

"Look," Ryan picks up his pencil, writing at the very top of Michael's sheet, "Area equals base one plus base two over two," He puts that in parentheses, "Times the height."

Michael looks away from the sheet, from Ryan's neat print, ".....Sorry. I suck at math."

"It's not hard if you know the formulas." Ryan starts writing the formula for perimeter under the first one. When Michael doesn't say anything, he looks up and smiles, "Look, if I can do it with a hangover, you can do it right now."

Michael smiles slightly, "Whatever." But he looks down at the formulas Ryan wrote and picks up his pencil.

Ryan watches him do a couple, to make sure they're right, then lays his head back down. Michael completes the handout, which really isn't as hard as he told himself it was going to be, and writes Ryan's name on one, mimicking his handwriting from the formula at the top of Michael's. He hands them in early and sits back down, giving himself the luxury of just staring at Ryan for awhile. He can see the soft little baby hairs that grow on the back of Ryan's neck and he's thinking about how much he'd like to touch them when the bell rings. Ryan jerks awake and Michael laughs. Everyone looks at them, and for a second, Michael lets himself feel like it's something it's not.

Ryan stands up, yawning, and walks out the door heading to his next class. Michael notices for the first time that he doesn't even have any books in his hands.

He's on a kind of confidence high from being able to complete the math sheet. Shoving his books and papers together in a messy pile, he crams the lot of them into his backpack and heads off to his next class with a bit of a bounce in his step. He's almost late, but it turns out that it doesn't matter. Even though it's only the first week of school, Michael's history class is already watching a movie.

It's about some guy in the 1800s, or some time when people had powdered wigs, who wears a lot of disguises and talks weird. The history teacher is on the phone the entire time at her computer in the corner, arguing with someone and pressing lots of buttons on her calculator. It looks pretty serious, and she doesn't even notice Michael sliding in right as the bell rings.

Michael doesn't really pay attention to the movie, just has elaborate fantasies about himself and Ryan. His favorite is the one where Ryan's giving him a ride home from some swim heat, and it's late. Ryan is a popular boy, so he knows all the tricks and stops the car a block from Michael's house, leaning across the center console to kiss him. Michael's arms wrap around Ryan's neck and pull him in, and then Ryan's hands are on him. He's got a pretty vivid imagination and in his mind, Ryan is about to give him some amazing head with those big, soft lips...

The lights suddenly cut on, "Michael Fred?" The teacher calls and waves a slip of paper, "Principal's office." She looks kind of annoyed.

Michael freezes, realizing that he's semi-hard in his jeans thanks to his imagination. He doesn't know what to do, everyone is staring at him it feels like, but then the teacher thankfully flicks the lights back offand returns to her computer. Michael hurries to stand, backpack half in front of his crotch, and rushes past everyone else and out the door into the empty hall.

He's going to KILL his mother.

Debbie Phelps' office smells the same as always, like buttercream candles and her perfume. She's smiling when Michael walks in, which is a good sign, and she's holding something in her hand. Papers.

Michael doesn't sit, "What is it? This was majorly embarrassing, so I hope it's important."

"You made a ten out of ten on both of these math sheets yesterday." She smiles, "Good job, honey."

It's been twenty minutes since math and now he's talking about it again. He definitely wants to kill her, "You called me up here to talk about my math sheets?"

"Michael, you struggled some last year. I'm glad this year is off to a better start."

Hs first thought is to snap at her about making him leave class (and his Ryan fantasy) but the thought of Ryan reminds him of something. Trying to appear reluctant, he scrubs the carpet with one toe, "Yeah, well, we have partners this year."

"Who's your partner?"

He steps in, letting her weighted door swing closed behind him, "Ryan Lochte."

As expected, she frowns.

"He's really good at math, mom. Did you know that? He taught me the formulas. Area equals-" He starts to recite, but Debbie interrupts.

"As long as you're not letting him distract you."

Michael holds himself back from an eye roll, "I'm making better grades. You already said that."

"Well, keep it up." She sets the papers back down, picking up her pen again, "You can go back to class now." But inside she is nervous. Inside, she wants to tell Michael that she doesn't trust Ryan.

Instead, she lets him head back to class and the pointless movie. Michael spends the rest of History lost in his daydreams. He doesn't care about the change in his grades at all. After History, it takes him no time to get his books together, so he heads to Spanish a little early.

Yet for some reason, when Michael walks into the Spanish class, Kyle is sitting in his seat.

Ryan isn't in the room yet, just Kyle and a bunch of the other boys. They're eating snacks, and when they see Michael their eyes kind of light up. Michael works hard to keep his face neutral. This is the kind of thing that happens to him periodically, and he's been working really hard over the years to hold his reactions in. Walking towards an empty desk on another aisle, he grips his books tighter.

A wannabe who still thinks it's cool to wear boat shoes stands up, moving to sit down in the desk Michael wants. He grins and glances at Kyle, seeking approval.

Michael flushes, turning around to take the seat he vacated. He's tall and lanky, and it takes him a lot longer to get there than the baseball player one desk away.

The next one has a backpack thrown in it, the third a pile of jackets. The teacher isn't in the room and Michael is bright red, standing in the middle of an aisle. He feels huge, a thousand feet tall, like some unnatural giant who can't move gracefully. He also feels incredibly stupid for even coming in here early, or for not turning right around when he saw Kyle was in here. But now it's too late, what is he supposed to do? Other students are coming in, the bell is about to ring.

The sad thing is that he feels like he's about to cry, which is stupid. Crying would only make it worse. He KNOWS that, he's worked for years to control these displays. Better to cry at home, afterwards, or not at all.

Kyle is the ringleader obviously, cackling loudly at Michael's expression. The other guys laugh with him and that's too much. Gritting his teeth, Michael walks over to the desk with the backpack in it and shoves it off the seat, sitting down in its place.

"Hey!" The jerk grabs his bag, giving Michael a nasty look, "Faggot."

"Shut up." Michael slams his stuff down, gripping the edge of the desk so hard, his knuckles turn white, "Just shut up."

"Geez," He sneers, "Like, chill the fuck out, bruh. Don't have a fucking seizure."

More laughter. Michael presses his lips together in a tight line and ducks his head right as Ryan comes into the room. He plops down in his usual seat without a word, and it sort of hurts Michael that Ryan doesn't really care if they don't sit together.

By afternoon gym, Michael is pissed, a dull throb of anger that comes suddenly fifteen minutes after the teasing and lasts the rest of the day. He swims hard, fueling his anger with his ability until it reaches a peak in the locker room as he's pulling on his boxers after his shower. He's so mad he swears he's seeing red.

It's pretty obvious that he's pissy when Ryan and Cullen come to deliver his regulation swimcap and sweats and Michael snatches them from their hands.

Ryan scrunches his face up, "What's your problem?"

Behind him, some paces back, Kyle grins, "No hard feelings about Spanish, Dumbo."

Michael slams his locker closed, "You know what, Kyle?" Michael's never fought back, never said a word, but all of a sudden, he can't shut up, "Go fuck yourself!"

Ryan back up a bit and Michael hates it.

"You think you're just so fucking funny, well you should go be a fucking comedian then!" He grabs his gym bag, "Don't you guys ever grow up?"

Kyle is still grinning. Cullen at least has the manners to try and look ashamed of himself, but Ryan is just blank-faced, looking at Michael in surprise.

It's infuriating. Michael takes special care to ram his shoulder against Ryan's as he pushes past to leave.


	5. Chapter 4

 

 

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CH 4: MICHAEL AND RYAN PLACE THE BET

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"Michael, honey, you gonna eat anything?"

His door is locked again, a habit he's stepping into easily. Michael is laying on his bed with his laptop propped up on his knees, logging into Facebook.

"No. I feel sick."

"You want any medicine? A glass of water?"

"It's just a stomach ache, mom. I'm going to sleep it off."

The thing about being unpopular and having a Facebook is that everyone wants to friend you. That way, they can go to your page and make fun of you even after school's out, with harsher language. Michael has more people in his friends list than Whitney, and he's in Kyle's top 20 on his Words With Friends, which everyone at school thinks is hilariously funny.

Michael doesn't have any real friends, and his Facebook is pretty depressing. He was going to delete it, but when Ryan added him, he changed his mind. At least now he can stalk Ryan's page.

His news feed is 90% Lochte anyway. Mr. Popular is invited to everything. Michael goes to a promising summer album.

He clicks through the photos of popular kids at the beach until he finds one he likes, a picture of Ryan on his back in the sand, trunks riding lower than low on his smoothly shaved skin, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun so that he can look up into the camera. His abs are sculpted like they're made of marble and his tan is flawless. He was probably training like crazy all summer.

Michael closes his eyes, but Ryan is still there in his mind, laying back on the beach. His imagination runs with it.

Michael is there, too, stumbling across hot sand to fall on top of Ryan, smiling. Ryan laughs and kisses him, hand dropping to the band of Michael's trunks and sliding under.

Real Michael shoves his laptop to the side, right hand gripping the sheets as he tries to make himself not think about it being there.

Imaginary Ryan smiles, "There's no one around," and palms Michael, getting him hard almost immediately. His hand wraps snugly around the base of Michael's dick. Ryan drags his hand up, then down again and Michael shifts on top of him, supporting his weight sort of awkwardly. Ryan grins, "Roll over."

Michael can't help it, he's hard as a rock.

The sand is hot against his back as Ryan pulls Michael's trunks down enough to release his dick, which is flushed red and leaving a slick line of precum on his stomach. Ryan licks that off first.

Real Michael swallows a noise and reaches into his boxers, right hand wrapping around himself and squeezing.

Imaginary Ryan's lifts Michael's dick up off his stomach, bumping his lips against the head before taking it into his mouth. The first suck is soft, which makes Michael moan, and Ryan's grip on him is tight as he swallows down another half-inch. Ryan is a little sloppy, the seal of his lips inconsistent as his head bobs, but Michael isn't complaining. One of Ryan's hands sneaks down to cup Michael's balls, rolling them in his palm steadily, and the whole thing is nearly overwhelming. In reality, Michael strokes himself to the same pace, fantasizing about how Ryan's tongue would feel on his shaft.

Michael imagines he can feel the pressure of Ryan's tongue against the underside of his dick, pressing against it and making him moan. When he tugs on a handful of curls, Ryan would just swallow and hum.

Michael is jerking himself off slow and hard, mimicking the halting rhythm of a blowjob. His legs fall wider apart as he thinks of Ryan, and he muffles a moan with his left forearm.

Imaginary Ryan can tell when Michael's close and he pulls back some, sucking hard.

Michael's left leg twitches and jerks up just a little at the same time as his hips, and he presses his arm against his mouth to keep from saying Ryan's name too loud as he cums.

When Ryan pulls his mouth away, Michael imagines cum is trailing white lines down his chin.

Michael pants, wiping his hand on the leg of his boxers. His eyes catch the screen of his laptop, and the picture of Ryan. He can't help but feel really pathetic. At some point, he falls asleep, laptop still on.

By home room the next day, everyone knows what happened the day before.

Michael is pissed off, a totally alien feeling for him. He's pissed off about being bullied, he's pissed off at Ryan for being so attractive, and he's pissed off at himself for being pissed off at Ryan.

Worst of all, some of the kids are actually pitying him. Some nerdy kid with huge front teeth touches his shoulder softly in the hall, "Hey, what they did-" But he never gets to finish because Michael shoves him away, shoves everyone away so he can just get to his locker in peace.

As usual, the entire swim team is right there, gathered around Ryan's locker listening to him retell some amazing story. When Michael walks by, they all turn to look and Kyle grins, grasping at his fifteen seconds of fame.

"Hola, amigo."

Michael glares at him, "Shove it up your ass."

Everyone oohs, laughing at Kyle and nudging him forward towards Michael.

"What'd you say, Dumbo?" Kyle cracks his knuckles. Ryan is behind him, leaning against the wall with one knee bent, foot flat against the lockers behind him. He doesn't seem concerned, so Michael figures he knows Kyle won't swing.

"I said fuck off and leave me alone," Michael's eyes flicker to Kyle's right hand and he sees it curl into a fist. Just that quick, Kyle has landed a punch. Michael's bottom lip goes white hot.

Whitney screams from down the hall and Michael sees Ryan push off from the wall but he can't see the expression on his face.

Michael doesn't know how fighting works, only that he's angry. He shoves Kyle to the ground with the advantage of his height, shoves him hard, and once he's down, Michael moves in. He knows to make a fist, obviously. It hurts his knuckles when he punches Kyle in the jaw, but Kyle keeps struggling so Michael hits him again anyway. Everything seems so slow with a quiet pulse, like he's fighting through jell-o at the bottom of the ocean. He gets three punches in before it speeds back up, noise rushing in to fill the gaps.

Whitney is still screaming his name, and two guys are pulling on him. Michael sees Cullen Jones' black hand on his left shoulder and someone else's tan one on the right. When they finally drag him back off Kyle, he looks up and sees Ryan Lochte.

"You gonna gang up on me? Is that the plan?" He can't control his volume level and Whitney won't shut the fuck up. He tries to punch Cullen, who steps back smoothly.

"Don't hurt him! Don't hurt him!" She runs a couple steps forward, but no one is listening to her. Kids are chanting about the fight, people are taking videos on their phones.

Michael is flailing around wildly so Cullen lets go, backing up. Ryan just holds his arm tighter though. He starts dragging Michael down the hall and all of a sudden all Michael's anger vanishes like air from a popped balloon.

"He deserved it. He deserved it." Michael babbles uselessly. Ryan has pulled him into the boy's bathroom. "What, you bringing me in here to fuck me up? I don't care anymore, Ryan! I-"

"Shut the fuck up already. Damn." Ryan pushes Michael back against the counter and Michael shuts up.

Ryan moves back, getting some paper towel and wetting it under the faucet. He grabs Michael's jaw in one hand and tilts his head back, then starts wiping off his chin. Michael realizes he's bleeding all of a sudden, pain rushing to his cut lip.

"You're a real ass, you know that?" Ryan folds the paper to a clean side and keeps wiping. It's more blood than Michael thought, "Yeah, he deserved it. But did you have to do it in front of your sister? Whitney's freaking out, she thought Kyle was gonna beat the shit out of you."

Michael can't talk, since Ryan is holding his jaw.

"And Bob's gonna flip." Ryan pulls away, tossing the paper towel in the trash can, "He's strict about fights, bruh."

Michael sucks his lip into his mouth for a moment before he speaks, "Yeah. Like he's strict about skipping workouts, huh?"

Ryan just gives him a look, "You think beating Kyle is gonna make people respect you? No one respects you."

That stings. Michael looks at himself in the mirror and sees what Kyle sees for the first time. A big-eared loser with a cut lip and bruised knuckles, hunkering down in the bathroom with his worst enemy, talking trash.

"I just..." Michael's chest hurts and he's wondering if Kyle landed a punch there without him noticing, "I just wanted you guys to treat me like... one of the guys."

Ryan's mouth opens but nothing comes out.

"I just wanted you to stop." Michael says, and then his vision is blurry. The lighting in the bathroom is flickering and he hopes Ryan doesn't notice.

"Seriously, though. Just being real. Why do you guys hate me?" Michael's bottom lip quivers on its own, a reflex, and he ducks his head down so Ryan doesn't see.

"I... I don't know," Ryan answers quietly.

Michael hates him and loves him all in the same moment, "Please just leave me alone." He leans his head against the mirror.

Ryan doesn't leave though, just stands there for a moment, "I'm sorry."

"Go away." Michael insists.

Ryan frowns, "I'm trying to fix it."

"There's nothing to fix!" Michael snaps, "We're not even fucking friends!" Michael laughs, bitterly and too loud, "Poor you. Poor Ryan Lochte, poor Mr. Perfect Life. Excuse me for making you feel guilty for two seconds."

Ryan replies, "My life isn't perfect."

Michael sighs just hearing that lame answer, "Seriously, Ryan, please just fuck off. You're the last person I want to see right now."

"Fine," Ryan throws the bloody tissue papers in the trash and scoops his jacket up off the dirty floor. Michael hadn't even noticed he'd put it there. Then he's gone, leaving the bathroom door swinging in his wake.

Michael's sister comes barreling in a moment later. Michael lets her freak out but he doesn't really listen. He keeps thinking about Ryan's clean jacket on the damp, dusty bathroom floor. Whitney puts something on his lip that stings and dabs foundation under his red eyes. Michael is late to his second period class, English, but the teacher doesn't really notice him when he slinks in, so he doesn't make a big deal out of it. It's nice to be invisible.

"What does the whale symbolize for Captain Ahab?" Moby Dick is written on the board in huge letters, and Michael lays his head down on his desk.

"Pssst."

Michael sucks on his lip, which tastes medicinal from whatever Whitney rubbed on it. He looks every way for the source of the sound.

"Psssst, Phelps." The whisper is coming from his left, and he turns and looks. It's a soft-looking girl he's seen with the stoners and she smiles at him, "Good job punching Deery."

Michael at least makes it to third period Anatomy before it happens. The loudspeaker cuts on, giving a shrill scream of feedback. There's a pause, then the secretary utters the dreaded phrase, "Michael Phelps, please report to the office. Immediately."

He knows what it's about and, by third period, so does almost everyone else. He also knows what to expect, in a way.

When he gets to the office, he sees Kyle slumped in a chair, face one giant, swollen bruise. Debbie is out of sight, because the vice principal has to deal with all of Michael's discipline.

"Michael, you wanna tell me your side of things?"

Michael looks back at her, "He hit me first." That's the only defense he's prepared.

"So you're pleading self-defense?"

He shrugs, "Yeah, sure."

She pauses, "Michael, I'm afraid this can't go unpunished. We can keep you in school, because we have some witnesses who say he hit first-"

"Who said that?" Kyle's head jerks up but the vice principal ignores him.

"-but you still hit him multiple times. You're going to have to take some detention time."

He was expecting expulsion, maybe suspension. Detention is child's play. He's never had it before, but it can't be that hard, the coolest people in school are always in it. What a lucky break.

"Michael? Did you hear me?" She's saying.

"Yeah. Detention. Can I go back to class now? I was in Anatomy, that's an advanced placement."

She looks pained, but she writes him up a red slip for before-school detention, a week's worth. Michael sighs and shoves it in his back pocket. There goes his hour between workout and school.

"Your mom would like to see you, also."

"Yes, m'amn." Michael says and goes back to class.

Anatomy is nothing much for him, just a lot of notes and memorization. Spanish is what he's been dreading. The entire day, he's been thinking about it with a sense of foreboding, and when he walks in, he expects Kyle to jump up and beat him to death. To his surprise, Kyle isn't there though.

Everyone watches Michael walk to his desk, except Ryan. When he sits down, Michael breaks the vow of silence he has against Lochte to ask him a question.

"Where's your friend? Deery?"

Ryan looks up from his notebook, looks right at Michael actually, "He had to transfer, the school wants him separate from you. He's D period now."

"Why didn't you ask to go too?" Michael wonders aloud.

"I didn't want to fuck up my schedule,"Ryan replies over his shoulder as the teacher walks in.

Michael can't respond to that, so he lays his head down on his desk. He and Ryan don't speak again until the bell rings.

"What'd they do to you?" Ryan mumbles while they're gathering their books up.

Michael looks up from his stuff to see Ryan watching him,"Week of detention."

"Did they say anything about the swim team?"

"No."

Ryan pauses, "You'll catch shit from Bob anyway." He pushes away from the desk and starts to walk off.

"Wait, what's gonna happen?" Michael chases him down, "What do you mean?"

Ryan looks back over his shoulder, "We'll vote. Him, me, and Cullen. We'll decide if you can stay on the team or not. Majority rules."

When he's gone, Michael feels a deep sense of foreboding. His day doesn't really pick up until Lunch period. To his pleasant surprise, he doesn't have to sit alone. A group of people, all congratulating him on punching Kyle, are sitting at a table waiting on him to walk in. It makes him feel better; not cool, but better than before.

"What was it like punching Deery?" A boy with headgear asks Michael the minute he sits down. Over the boy's shoulder, Michael can see Ryan watching him with an irritated expression on his face. Kyle is sitting to Ryan's left and he looks purely furious.

"It was awesome," Michael replies a bit too loudly, "Totally worth the busted lip." The table laughs with him and Michael actually feels a bit of power for once. It's nice.

Next period, Math, he can tell that Ryan is dying to question him. The teacher is already in the room when they arrive though, so he can't say anything until after the lesson notes when they get partnered off.

"Who were those losers you sat with at lunch?" is the first thing Ryan says when their desks touch. That hurts Michael's ego quite a bit.

"Just some people." Michael mumbles, puzzling over the first problem. He blushes red when Ryan's tan arm comes across the desk and starts writing formulas at the top of his sheet again.

"It's a negative 4 there, not positive. That's why you can't find B." Ryan explains, erasing part of Michael's work, "See, if you try it this way..." He scratches out some quick equations, "There. B equals 47 which makes sense if B equals A plus 17 because in the next problem A ends up equaling 30."

Michael is completely lost, but he tries not to show it. He goes on to the next problem, but when that one is too hard he skips ahead to the third one. He's barely started when Ryan reaches back across.

"What happened?" He takes Michael sheet and looks it over, making a few minute changes, "Look, again, it's negative 7 not positive. You have to remember that when you carry across the equal sign."

Michael is annoyed by Ryan's tone and he snatches his paper back, "It's fine. You don't have to teach it to me."

"I'm just trying to help-"

"It's fine, I said." Michael snaps, covering his answers with his left arm as he continues working down the list of equations.

"What is your fucking deal?" Ryan grumbles too low for the teacher to hear, "I didn't ask to be your fucking math partner."

What a way to put it. Michael rolls his eyes. "I don't know," He snaps, bearing down too hard when he writes, "Don't say stuff about who I sit with. Why do YOU wanna sit with people who only like you because you're an asshole?" He mutters back. He can't believe he's talking to Ryan. He's so pissed at him and yet he's STILL talking.

"At least those people have my back." Ryan snaps, then lowers his voice, "And I'm not an asshole, you're an asshole."

Michael scoffs, "They don't even like you! You're wasting your time with a bunch of people who wouldn't even sit with you anymore if you stopped being so popular and perfect!"

"You're an idiot," Ryan rolls his eyes.

"No, you're a fucking idiot." Michael grumbles. He gives up on his worksheet, "I'll bet you two hundred dollars that if you started hanging out with me, your friends would hate you. If you stopped acting like Mr. Perfect they'd drop you in a second." Michael doesn't have two hundred dollars, but Ryan most certainly does. And he's not really being literal about it.  
.  
Ryan takes Michael's sheet and starts filling the answers in rapidly, including the work. He narrows his eyes consideringly, "For how long?"

Michael is taken off guard, "Three weeks." Long enough for Ryan's friends to become annoyed, not long enough for it to hurt too bad when Ryan drops him again.

Ryan snorts, "Easy." He holds out his hand to shake, "You're on. I can convince them you're cool in way less time than that."

Michael hesitates for a second, but then shakes his hand, "Starting tomorrow morning?"

He gets an eye-roll in return, "No problem. You're making a big deal out of nothing."

Michael actually smiles back.

That afternoon, Michael waits until a group of boys is walking into Gym C so that he can tag along in the midst of them. He manages to sneak into the locker room but he's only there maybe five minutes when Bob Bowman storms in. Michael hasn't even gotten to put his suit on, but when he sees Bob's expression, he thinks that might be a blessing. Because he'd rather not die in a Speedo.

"What were you thinking?!" His face is purple, "You could have been expelled!" A short pause for breath, "Don't think just because you're a talented swimmer that I'll let you off the hook. This is the first WEEK, Phelps! We may not be able to compete without you, but I could care less. You keep showing your ass like this and I will personally request your suspension. School comes first."

It's tough love. Michael knows all about tough love: his step-mom says that Fred Phelps was just trying to employ his version of it by walking out on them.

When he zones back in, Bob is mid-sentence, "-vote on whether you stay or go. So glue your ass to that bench." He points, then goes into his office. Cullen follows immediately, but Ryan glances at Michael first. When all three are inside, the door slams shut.

Leaving Michael with a team full of pissed off, muscled up swimmers.

  
\- - -

  
"Now, Ryan, I know what you're going to say. Kyle's your friend, I get that. But you have to treat this fairly, look at the pros and cons bef-"

Ryan slumps into a seat, "I think he should stay."

Bob blinks.

"He's a good swimmer. And the fight was Kyle's fault. He hit first." Ryan swings a fist, makes a popping noise to represent a connection. His ass makes the fake leather chair cushion squeak.

Bob continues to stare for a moment, " I can't have more fights like this, Ryan. The faculty is already losing their minds. Deery's parents took three hours to calm down in the office. If there's going to be more problems...."

Cullen glances at Ryan, like he's trying to make sure his decision is the right one, "I vote stay, too. We can handle the team."

"...Okay," Bob stands up, "I'll notify the office of our decision. Start warm-ups for me, Ryan." He opens the back door of his office, the one that leads straight into the hallway, bypassing the pool, and is gone before Ryan can answer.

Cullen shuts the door behind him, "Dude, what was that? You guys hate Phelps."

Ryan shrugs, "I don't really give a fuck either way. I want to compete. I got scholarships riding on this. So do you, right?"

Cullen stares at him, long and hard, then nods his head. His eyes show just how insane he thinks Ryan is, though.

  
\- - -

  
Michael is afraid.

"If we can't qualify this year, I'm going to personally stomp your face in. I have a full ride to Texas on the line this year," Cameron Van der Bergh says. He pushes Michael, which knocks him into the other swimmers, who push him back. He's being jostled between them at a fast pace, and he knows he's just waiting for one of them to get mad enough to push him down and onto the deck.

It's a flash of colors that Michael can't remember the start of, he can't even make out exact faces. His shoulder hits the deck and he flinches, waiting for a kick, but it never comes. And then he feels a warm hand grabbing his forearm too tight, jerking him up. It hurts, but it's a different hurt than someone looking for a fight, and Michael doesn't struggle.

"We voted stay. So chill the fuck out before Coach gets back." It's said to the room, but close to Michael's ear. It's Ryan, he knows it's Ryan, could recognize that voice anywhere. Michael feels safe, though he has no right to. But after the ring of boys, Ryan is a comforting presence. A familiar evil, maybe. Michael opens his eyes gingerly, glancing all around to get his bearings.

And then Ryan is letting him go, pushing Michael towards the locker room with a mutter about dressing out for practice. He doesn't scold the others in front of him, not that Michael expected it. He just looks at them for a moment before turning towards his bag on the bench, shouldering it and heading into the locker room himself. Cullen and Kyle stare after him in mute disbelief.

The rest of practice is nearly silent. The other boys don't even joke and laugh like usual. It's a tense situation, and Michael is relieved when Bob tells them it's time to go home at 5:00.

When Michael gets home, he heads straight for the kitchen to make himself a snack. The last two hours, his stomach has been digesting itself, and he really wants a peanut butter and banana sandwich on toast. He makes it halfway in the door before he sees her, sitting there at the kitchen table giving him a deadly look.

Honestly, he'd forgotten about the fight for a minute, but Michael knows when he's in trouble and when he's just not. And this, with Debbie glaring at him and clutching her mug of tea in her hand like she's trying to break it... this is not the latter.

"He hit me first." Michael says it, just throws it out there.

She explodes.

"I don't care who hit who first! Violence is not the answer, Michael! I raised you better than that!"

Michael goes over to the toaster and puts two slices in, calmly.

Debbie continues, "I'm the PRINCIPAL, Michael Fred. your actions REFLECT ON ME." She bangs her mug on the table, coffee splashing out.

He gets a glass from the fridge and a plate from the cupboard. When the toast pops up, Michael goes about making his sandwich, putting it on the plate and cutting it into two triangles.

"When I call you to a meeting in my office, it is NOT optional, Michael! I may be your mother, but I'm still an authority figure!" Debbie rages, "It took HOURS to convince Deery's parents not to sue! HOURS, Michael Fred!"

He pours his milk.

"And now you have DETENTION! You're LUCKY you're not EXPELLED!" She bangs her mug again and more coffee sloshes out everywhere, "I want you to know I've called you're father and he is going to be calling ANY MINUTE to give you a PIECE OF HIS MIND!"

Michael picks his plate and glass up.

"GO TO YOUR ROOM!" Debbie rages, and he takes his dinner up with him right on cue.

Michael eats his sandwich by the light of his laptop booting up, watching as his screensaver, a shot of pool lanes at an endless-looking angle, slowly gets covered up by windows. His messenger client loads first, and he sees Hilary's screenname under the Signed In tab. Whitney is logged on, too, and when an IM flashes on the screen, he closes the box and goes on invisible.

For once, he does not want to talk to his favorite sister about his day.

His e-mail notifications pop up next and Michael clicks them, finishing his sandwich in two more bites while the page loads.

Some are from swimming forums and websites, and he's got an update on Lil Wayne's latest ESPN blog, but several are Facebook notifications, all starting with 'Ryan Lochte...'

Michael sets his plate and empty glass on his bedside table and lays back on the pillow, opening the Facebook ones first.

Ryan shared a Pepe meme on his wall, invited him to the swim team's official group, and tagged him in a photo of the schoolyear's swimteam roster. In addition, there's a single message in his Inbox.

[Ryan: 4:45am Monday. Don't be late.]

Michael is ridiculously happy, and ridiculously lame.

 


	6. Chapter 5

 

 

╔═.♥. ════════════════════════════╗

CH. 5: IN WHICH THE BET TRULY BEGINS

╚══════.♥. ═══════════════════════╝

When Michael wakes up Monday morning, it's to the shrill beep of his alarm clock and the uncomfortable heat of sleeping with his laptop plugged into the charger and on his lap. Same as every other morning.

He shoves it off and rolls over, smacking the snooze button, and closes his eyes. Maybe he'll be sick today. Then he remembers the bet, and Ryan. So he gets up.

He takes care to dress, but there's not really much to choose from in his closet. Shouldering his backpack over one shoulder, he grabs an apple and heads for the front door.

"I don't like the way you lock your door lately," Debbie comments from the kitchen. Michael doesn't reply.

Normally he would catch an early lift from his mother, but not today. Even though he was expecting it, it's still a surprise to see Ryan Lochte parked on the curb in front of his house.

He's so busy trying to see Ryan through the dark tinted windows that he forgets to chew. Michael chokes on his bite of apple and thinks he's about to die. He ends up having to hack it out into the grass by the dining room window. Ryan, for his part, just rolls his window down and calls out, "Get in, hurry up." It's... almost friendly.

Ryan gets straight to business once Michael's inside., "Okay. My favorite color is green, I like swimming, drawing, and fashion. I have a crush on Megan Romano, the cheerleader, and you need to come to this party this weekend, we'll talk about it later. Oh, and we hang out now because uh... last Saturday. I had a bit of a hangover, you loaned me some aspirin, we kicked it and got a coffee. Look, just don't talk much if they ask lots of questions."

Michael blinks, "Should I be taking notes?"

Ryan ignores that, "C'mon, spill. You're my "best friend", I need to know this stuff. Hurry up."

"Okay... um..." Michael decides to copy Ryan's format, "My favorite color is blue. I like swimming. I... don't have a crush on anybody, I guess... I don't want to come to a party and anyways I'm grounded. Also I don't drink coffee, but okay. I play a lot of Call of Duty Zombies, not much on Live, but I'm really not that good."

Ryan snags onto that immediately, "Call of Duty? Add me, dude, LochteNatorRex."

Michael tries to commit that to memory, "Okay, sure."

Ryan flips on his stereo system, apparently connected to his phone via Bluetooth, and starts playing a song,"Please tell me you know about Kevin Gates and Luca Brasi 2."

"What?"

"Dear God. You're like a virgin!" Ryan cranks the volume up, and thankfully doesn't notice Michael's blush, "Is this shit not trill?"

"Trill?" Michael gives him a look. Does Ryan realize how lame that sounds?

"Trill. Cool, baller, gangsta. You really need to pick up on some of my slang if we're gonna convince people we're best friends." Ryan replies without missing a beat.

"Uh, okay." Michael mentally notes to himself to NEVER say 'trill.'

Ryan stops in front of a large, expensive-looking brick house, "Okay, CJones is gonna be first pick-up after you every morning. He's gonna reach for shotgun, but hold steady, a'ight? You gotta sit up front or no one'll believe we're serious."

Michael tenses slightly, a sudden sense of danger coming to the bet. He hadn't thought about other people being jealous of him. And it isn't like he can ask Ryan to protect him, how lame would that be? They wait in silence for maybe three minutes, and then Cullen appears, sloping across his lawn with a huge grin. The windows are tinted, so he opens the front passenger door.

Then he just stares.

Ryan smiles wide, "Hey, G, hop in! What'cha waitin' for?"

Cullen still looks a little shell shocked, but he slams the door and opens the side doors to get in the back, "Your ass to shrink, but you're right, I guess I should just give up hope."

Ryan pulls a face, "Hey man, you're just jealous cause I got booty and you don't. Ladies love that shit."

"Whatever, dude, you always say that. But the truth is, you just got a big ol' ass."

"Hey," Ryan turns, looking away from the road completely and officially making Michael nervous, "I got PLENTY of girls willing to spend all night WORSHIPING my ass. So, whatever."

"Buncha little thots..." Cullen mutters under his breath.

Michael blushes again. He's not sure what a 'thot' is but he's got a good idea he would be one if the chance to worship Ryan's ass came up.

"Whatever, man. Whatever," Ryan just laughs, and everyone relaxes a little.

With Cullen in the car, Michael suddenly feels himself under scrutiny though. Ryan's briefing becomes a sudden security blanket when the first question comes.

"So. Michael," Cullen pauses awkwardly, "When did you and Ryan start hanging out?"

"I saw him downtown last Saturday. Gave him some aspirin..." Michael picks at the armrest.

"You go downtown? That's funny, I've never even seen you out..." Cullen says. His tone is just a bit suspicious.

Michael shrugs one shoulder, "Sometimes. I try not to go out much, I'm taking swimming really seriously this year..." He realizes he's mumbling and clears his throat with a hack.

Ryan glances back at Cullen, giving him a meaningful look, "He's coming this weekend."

Cullen raises a brow but says nothing.

The next stop is a large, white house with a supremely manicured lawn. The more houses he sees, the more defined Michael's impression of Ryan's lifestyle is becoming. This one is the Deery residence, home of the third musketeer in Ryan's innermost circle. The REAL best friend, not the poser that Michael is trying to be.

Kyle slopes across his bright green lawn and opens the back door of the SUV, mid-laugh, "Ry, dude, my dad wants to sign me up for self-def-" He stopped, "Why is Cullen in the backseat? Can I hop up-" His eyes go to the front seat and narrow venomously.

"...Front seat's taken..." Cullen mumbles in reply.

There is a beat of silence then Kyle's expression shuts down, "Oh, hell no. I'll walk."

"Kyle, dude, don't be that way," Ryan sighs. Kyle starts walking and Ryan follows, driving slowly next to him, "Get in the car, Kyle. It's 4:49."

"No. Way. I refuse to get in your fucking car with the guy that punched me. The guy who is also apparently your new best friend!?"

Ryan glances at Michael, feeling the bet going his way and definitely disliking that.

"Kyle," He snaps, refusing to lose so soon, "It is 4:50 and we missed practice yesterday. I will LEAVE YOU. Get in this fucking car."

Kyle sighs and grumbles and frowns, but he gets in.

They pull up at school at precisely 4:57 and Cullen and Kyle get out first, like it's some kind of unwritten rule. Or maybe they're rushing to get their distance so they can discuss Michael. Regardless, once they've shut the door behind them, Ryan looks at Michael.

"Be cool, okay? Seriously. I don't think it's fair for you to purposely be so lame. Like that outfit... really? That's not fair."

Michael turns bright red, "...These are just... my clothes."

Ryan raises his brows but doesn't say anything else, just gets out, leaving Michael scrambling to keep up.

He can feel everyone looking at him the second he's out, but he just falls into step with Ryan, imitating his blank expression and his walk. The Athletic Complex is already crawling with students coming to-and-from morning practices and Michael can feel plenty of eyes on his back as he tags along behind Ryan Lochte.

One of the football jocks tries to get Ryan's attention, but he gets a brush off.

"Sorry, Ray, I'm almost late!" Ryan says, pushing past.

The football guy skids to a stop and Michael accidentally collides with his chest. Michael notices that his cologne smells extremely good.

"Hey, watch out," Ray says.

Michael recognizes him as the middle linebacker of their team and has the presence of mind to run away. He does NOT need another confrontation.

By the time he gets to the locker room, Ryan is already dressed out waiting for him. It's 4:59.

"Okay," Ryan whispers while Michael's at his locker, "If you're gonna be my best friend, you have to do what Cullen and Kyle are always doing."

Michael snorts, "Follow you around like a groupie?"

Ryan nods, "Basically."

Michael almost gets annoyed at that before he sees Ryan's point. Ryan could probably care less what the fuck Michael does. It's everyone ELSE that will care, and if Michael and Ryan don't pretend in the right way, no one will believe them. And it's Michael who wanted to do this in the first place, so he doesn't have much room to complain.

"So," Michael smirks, pulling out his Spanish book, "You getting scared yet? Some of those jocks didn't look all too thrilled to see you with me. And Kyle barely got in."

Ryan shrugs one shoulder, "It's only the first day. And look what you're wearing."

He is a good sport about the bet, and he plays fair. Michael knows he's just doing it because he thinks he's right and he wants to prove it, but still. They sit together in all their classes, right with Kyle and Cullen and any other swimmers, and Ryan tells Michael the same gossip he tells everyone else.

He knows it's starting to seem real when people start freaking.

At lunch, Michael follows Ryan to the swim team table and sits down on his left side, because Ryan is right-handed. Cullen takes the right with a begrudging expression.

"Okay, so-" Ryan pauses, looking at Michael's paper bag lunch, "What's that?" He points to Michael's sandwich, specifically the coins of banana sticking out the sides.

Michael shrugs, confused, "...Peanut butter and banana." He feels like that should be obvious. "I eat 'em all the time. You want a bite?"

Everyone else is still talking, having their own conversations, but Michael can feel them watching Ryan as he picks up Michael's sandwich and takes a bite. Michael knows they expect Ryan to make fun of him, that they're waiting for the friendship to turn into a practical joke that sends Michael off crying to his mom's office.

Michael isn't worried. If that happens, at least he'll get $200.

They definitely don't expect Ryan's crooked smile, or the way he licks peanut butter off his thumb, "Not bad. I never thought about bananas on a sandwich before. Weird. But it tastes alright." Ryan always eats fast food, and he offers Michael some of his fries as a trade for the bite of sandwich.

Michael takes them and then Ryan turns around to talk to Cullen and Kyle. They don't speak again the rest of lunch but Michael can't stop thinking about the way Ryan licked his thumb for the rest of the day.

Gym period is a welcome chance to see Ryan's ass again, which Michael has been fantasizing on all day. He hasn't had the guts to glance at him naked in the locker room yet, but out on the deck it's fair game and the cheerleaders setting up banners above the bleachers are definitely looking too. Michael gets a really good chance to look from across the pool while he's getting his water bottle out of his bag.

Ryan is talking to Connor, his back to Michael's side of the pool, and Michael has the perfect view of his thighs and ass. He tries to burn the image into his mind for later inspiration.  
  
Michael is so busy watching Ryan's butt flex as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other that he forgets to swallow and dribbles water down his chin and chest. Luckily he's wet from the pool already, so no one will notice anyway.

"Okay, let's do some kickboard," Bob barks from the end of the pool. Everyone groans, including Michael, but he actually kind of likes kickboard. It's an important step, and it's not nearly as hard as say, breaking your arms in the Fly.

"More like kick-BORED. Gimme a break," Cullen grumbles, taking off his goggles and tossing them over by the bench.

Bob frowns and heads over to their side of the pool, which just makes Ryan grin.

"Uh-oh, CJones, here comes the pitbull," He makes a barking sound.

"Jones! Do you have a problem with my methods? You know, you're a Senior. Try and set some kind of example around here for once, okay?"

If it were Michael, he would be freaking out. But Cullen and Ryan and Kyle aren't like that. He knows they aren't and he wonders if people are just born that way, all perfect and cool, or if it's something that happens on its own.

Cullen smiles easily, "No sir." When Bob walks away he and Ryan erupt into muffled laughter, ducking their heads down together. Michael feels more than a little jealous.

They split into groups of two, one to swim two laps and the other to watch and critique the kick method. Kyle starts towards Ryan, but it's already too late. Ryan pairs off with Michael without a word, leaving a confused Cullen and Kyle to form their own group.

Michael picks up immediately on Ryan's Backstroke perfection, and he knows it's Ryan's golden stroke from the way he chooses that one for their check-up from Bob, who declares Ryan's kicks nearly perfect.

Michael rolls his eyes once Bob has moved on, "Everything about you is nearly perfect. Big deal."

Ryan snorts, "Whatever."

"It is. Your entire life is a dream."

Ryan passes Michael the kickboard and shrugs, "Whatever. You're the bigshot swimmer now."

Michael hesitates before getting in the water, preferring to talk to Ryan any day, "Name one thing about your life that isn't nearly perfect."

Ryan just rolls his eyes, "Go already."

Michael has no choice but to swim away.

Michael and Ryan are ready to leave after practice way before Cullen and Kyle, so they head out to the parking lot first. Michael sighs, leaning against the passenger door because it's too hot to get inside unless Ryan's going to crank the AC, "Being your best friend is hard."

"Yeah, well, being yours ain't an easy job either," Ryan grins, slow and easy, "Wears me down to hear everyone complaining about you all day."

Michael actually laughs, though he's not sure if it's a joke or not, "Ouch, man. Everyone?" He feels suddenly nervous, but he tries not to show it, "You too?"

Ryan just shrugs, glancing over at Cullen crossing the parking lot, "I guess you're okay. I haven't been too bent out of shape about it yet."


End file.
